stairway. With each passing hour, the man grew more comfortable with the darkness. Now he could see the wine racks, even the individual bottles, though a week before he would not have been able to see his hand flapping an inch from his face in this lightless place. Rufo called it another benefit; the frightened dean wondered if it might be more a symptom.
He found Rufo in the far corner, behind the last of the racks, asleep in a wooden casket the vampire had recovered from the work shed behind the mausoleum. Thobicus moved toward Rufo, then stopped abruptly, eyes wide with fear and confusion.
Bron Turman walked toward him.
As he turned to flee, the confused dean found several others, including Fester Rumpol, blocking the way. They had come back to life! Somehow, these priests had been resurrected and had come back to destroy Thobicus!
The dean squealed and leaped for the wine rack. He climbed it like a spider, with agility the aged and withered man had not known for several decades. He neared the top and could have easily slipped over, but a command rang out within his head, an order compelling him to stop.
Slowly, Thobicus turned his head about to see Kierkan Rufo sitting up in his casket, his grotesque smile wide.
“You do not like my new playthings?” the vampire asked.
Thobicus did not understand. He looked closer at the nearest man, Fester Rumpol, and realized that Rumpol’s throat was still ragged from Rufo’s raking and tearing. The man could not possibly be breathing, Thobicus realized; the man was still dead.
Thobicus sprang from his perch, flying the ten feet to land with catlike grace on the stone floor. Bron Turman, near where he landed, reached out with a stiff arm and grasped him tightly.
“Tell him to let you go,” Rufo said casually, but his patient facade went away immediately, replaced by a judgmental, even dangerous expression. “Take control of him!”
Without saying a word, Thobicus steeled his gaze and mentally ordered Turman to let go-and the dean was relieved indeed when the man released him and stepped back, standing quietly to the side.
“Zombies,” Thobicus breathed, understanding that Rufo had animated the torn corpses into undead, unthinking servants, among the lowest forms in the hierarchy of the netherworld.
“Those who submit will know an intelligent existence, as you have come to know,” Rufo declared in an imposing voice. “Those who choose to die in the favor of their god shall become unwitting servants, unthinking zombies, to their ultimate torment!”
As if on cue, Banner appeared from around the corner, smiling at Thobicus. Banner had submitted, had denied his god in the face of Kierkan Rufo.
“Greetings, Thobicus,” the man said, and when Banner opened his mouth, Thobicus realized that he, like Rufo, sported a pair of fangs.
“You are a vampire,” the dean whispered, stating the obvious.
“As are you,” Banner replied.
Thobicus looked to Rufo skeptically, then, following another mental command, reached up to feel inside his own mouth, to feel his own set of fangs.
“We are both vampires,” Banner continued, “and with Kierkan Rufo, we are three.”
“Not quite,” Rufo interjected. Both men regarded him curiously, Banner’s eyes full of suspicion, Dean Thobicus too wrapped up in confusion.
“You are not yet fully in the realm of vampires,” Rufo explained, and he knew that he was speaking the truth, though where he had gained such an understanding of this undead state, he did not know. It was the knowledge imparted by the chaos curse, he figured.
“You promised me that I would be a vampire,” Banner said. “That was our deal.”
Rufo held up a hand to calm him. “And so you shall be,” he assured the man, “in time.”
“You rose into full power soon after your death,” Banner complained.
Rufo smiled and considered the chaos curse, swirling inside of him, the potion that had imparted such strength and understanding. But I had an
He found Rufo in the far corner, behind the last of the racks, asleep in a wooden casket the vampire had recovered from the work shed behind the mausoleum. Thobicus moved toward Rufo, then stopped abruptly, eyes wide with fear and confusion.
Bron Turman walked toward him.
As he turned to flee, the confused dean found several others, including Fester Rumpol, blocking the way. They had come back to life! Somehow, these priests had been resurrected and had come back to destroy Thobicus!
The dean squealed and leaped for the wine rack. He climbed it like a spider, with agility the aged and withered man had not known for several decades. He neared the top and could have easily slipped over, but a command rang out within his head, an order compelling him to stop.
Slowly, Thobicus turned his head about to see Kierkan Rufo sitting up in his casket, his grotesque smile wide.
“You do not like my new playthings?” the vampire asked.
Thobicus did not understand. He looked closer at the nearest man, Fester Rumpol, and realized that Rumpol’s throat was still ragged from Rufo’s raking and tearing. The man could not possibly be breathing, Thobicus realized; the man was still dead.
Thobicus sprang from his perch, flying the ten feet to land with catlike grace on the stone floor. Bron Turman, near where he landed, reached out with a stiff arm and grasped him tightly.
“Tell him to let you go,” Rufo said casually, but his patient facade went away immediately, replaced by a judgmental, even dangerous expression. “Take control of him!”
Without saying a word, Thobicus steeled his gaze and mentally ordered Turman to let go-and the dean was relieved indeed when the man released him and stepped back, standing quietly to the side.
“Zombies,” Thobicus breathed, understanding that Rufo had animated the torn corpses into undead, unthinking servants, among the lowest forms in the hierarchy of the netherworld.
“Those who submit will know an intelligent existence, as you have come to know,” Rufo declared in an imposing voice. “Those who choose to die in the favor of their god shall become unwitting servants, unthinking zombies, to their ultimate torment!”
As if on cue, Banner appeared from around the corner, smiling at Thobicus. Banner had submitted, had denied his god in the face of Kierkan Rufo.
“Greetings, Thobicus,” the man said, and when Banner opened his mouth, Thobicus realized that he, like Rufo, sported a pair of fangs.
“You are a vampire,” the dean whispered, stating the obvious.
“As are you,” Banner replied.
Thobicus looked to Rufo skeptically, then, following another mental command, reached up to feel inside his own mouth, to feel his own set of fangs.
“We are both vampires,” Banner continued, “and with Kierkan Rufo, we are three.”
“Not quite,” Rufo interjected. Both men regarded him curiously, Banner’s eyes full of suspicion, Dean Thobicus too wrapped up in confusion.
“You are not yet fully in the realm of vampires,” Rufo explained, and he knew that he was speaking the truth, though where he had gained such an understanding of this undead state, he did not know. It was the knowledge imparted by the chaos curse, he figured.
“You promised me that I would be a vampire,” Banner said. “That was our deal.”
Rufo held up a hand to calm him. “And so you shall be,” he assured the man, “in time.”
“You rose into full power soon after your death,” Banner complained.
Rufo smiled and considered the chaos curse, swirling inside of him, the potion that had imparted such strength and understanding. But I had an
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